


The Pizza Job

by hawkflyer667



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: FAHC, Fake AH Crew, GTA AU, M/M, jereavinwood, pizza boy AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 21:20:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9460814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkflyer667/pseuds/hawkflyer667
Summary: When Jeremy, overworked pizza boy in Los Santos, has to bring pizza to the infamous penthouse of the FAHC, he figures his life is probably over.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShadeOfAzmeinya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadeOfAzmeinya/gifts).



> Happy birthday, dearest Shade! 
> 
> Inspired by [this art](http://armadil-lauren.tumblr.com/post/155031318706/based-off-of-this-post) !
> 
> Also, note to all - this is my first time posting FAHC work on AO3 and I want to make it very clear any writing about the FAHC boys have NOTHING to do with the real AH folks. I do not, I repeat, do /not/, ship the real people. Just to make that very clear.

Jeremy had a distinct hatred for his job. Pizza was fine, really, but the people of Los Santos were really a bunch of asshats. Frankly, he figured the people of Boston were nicer and that was really saying something - good old New England charm (not). There was the distinct risk of every job he ran that he wouldn’t only not get a tip, but wouldn’t be paid at all. On more than one night, he’d had the butt of a gun jammed in his face instead of a tip, the pizza snatched out of his hands, and told to run or risk being pumped full of lead.

Yeah, that was the sort of town he was living in. But he had spent all his money getting away from Boston and he needed something to pay rent. Or get the hell out of Los Santos - what was supposed to be his saving grace turned into just another form of hell. But this job was keeping him afloat for now and he should be grateful. Or at least, that’s what he figured he should be. Living off of stolen burnt pizzas and ramen noodles in a crap flat in the worst part of town didn’t exactly scream ‘gratitude’ to him, but hey. He’d take what he could get. 

When he was told to deliver six pizzas to the largest penthouse in Los Santos, that’s when Jeremy figured his brief luck keeping him in this world had run out. Because, rumor has it, that was where the infamous Fake AH Crew lived. The LSPD didn’t have enough information to bust the Fakes from their home and arrest them - yet - so there they stayed, but any pizza boy with enough of a head on his shoulders would stay away from there unless prompted with a burning piece of metal.

Which, in this case, he was - his boss brandished his pizza iron at him and pointed towards the door and so Jeremy, with a long suffering sigh of a man with the knowledge that this was probably his last day on earth, grabbed the pizzas, hopped in his battered car, and headed towards the penthouse.

Jabbing the button on the speaker, he shifted restlessly as he waited for them - the fucking Fake AH Crew - to buzz him up to deliver their pizza. Here he was, delivering six fucking pepperoni pizzas (with extra cheese!) to the menaces of this city, to men who killed literally without abandon, who (as rumor goes) would laugh as the Vagabond ate your heart out with a spoon. To the Golden Boy, who could spin you buttered tales so lovely you could forget your own life story in lieu of the one he told you. 

He gulped. The buzzer clicked on and a cheerful man’s voice with a British accent rang out. “Oi! Pizza! Yeah, bring it upstairs with you? Thanks, mate.” The speaker clicked off and the door clicked open and Jeremy, shocked a bit that he just heard the voice of the Golden Boy and wasn’t cosmically smited on the spot, pushed into the building.

After a long elevator ride, he ended up at the front door of the Fakes penthouse. Again, he knocked, heart in his throat, but he didn’t have to wait more than a minute or so before the door was thrown open wide. “Yeah?” the British one asked, grinning.

Jeremy’s heart literally stopped. The two men who greeted him were fucking gorgeous. Like, models. His heart sank into his shoes because he knew he was doomed to replay this meeting over and over in his head for the rest of his fucking life - that is, if it lasted past this meeting. He could understand now why people could let this Golden Boy walk all over them -- with his stupid glasses, hair styled perfectly, and a body like a fucking swimmer’s, Jeremy was ready to lay down and let this asshole do whatever he wanted with him.

The other man, standing slightly over his shoulder, had long sandy hair tied back in a knot. He wasn’t sure who he was - he didn’t match any of the descriptions of the Fakes that he knew, but he still was beautiful. Strong arms and a gorgeous face. He swallowed, holding up the pizza as if it was a shield. 

“Pizza?” he asked, voice shaking. “Got an order for - uh - six pepperoni.”

“Six?” the man behind the Golden Boy asked, and Jeremy could almost feel himself melt. Fuck. Hell. Pull yourself together, Lil J, for gods’ sake. “We only ordered five.”

“Oh -,” Jeremy said frantically, shaking his head. “My bad, then, you won’t be charg--”

“Don’t worry about it. Jesus Christ, Ry, you’ve got the guy shaking in his boots even without the damn mask.” The Golden Boy grinned, shoving his hand in his pocket and pulling out a wad of cash. Mask.... was that? 

Jeremy took an involuntary step backwards as he registered what exactly mask meant. That man - the man he was oogling - was the fucking Vagabond? God. God, he was dead. He was going to get run down or his throat cut out or....

Hands snapped in front of his face and when he focused again, the Golden Boy’s face was right in front of his. “Ryan, I think you’ve broken him,” the guy laughed. “Come on, mate, we’re not gonna fuckin’ hurt you for delivering our pizza.”

A rough voice came from inside the penthouse. “Stop fuckin’ the pizza boy and get us our damn food, Gavin!” 

“Sorry, Micoo boi!” the Golden Boy simpered back, shaking his head and turning back to Jeremy. “Really, dude, how much do I owe you?”

“Uh....” Jeremy’s voice shook. “3-37.50. With tax.” The Vagabond, behind The Golden-- Gavin -- let out a frustrated snort, and Jeremy nearly thought his bowels were going to fail. His eyes widened and Gavin turned around, gesturing angrily at Jeremy. “What, Ry? You don’t want me to pay the kid?”

“No, no,” Ryan replied easily, shaking his head, and Jeremy for a second could see the light of safety at the end of the tunnel, heart beating rapidly. “Give him two hundred, at least. He had to deal with us, after all.” His flash of a smile was almost feral and Jeremy knew it. He’d seen too much. That smile would be following him home and he’d die. Good. Great. Fucking phenomenal. 

“Two hundred it is, then,” Gavin said, gently placing two bills on top of Jeremy’s pizza bag and then lightly slipping the pizzas into his own arms before plopping half into Ryan’s. Jeremy just stood there, somewhat flabbergasted at what just happened. 

“You can go now,” Ryan chuckled as Jeremy stood there, frozen. “Nice job, by the way. Buy yourself something nice with the change.” He nodded and headed back towards the door, Gavin following. 

Seeing the light of freedom, Jeremy turned on his heels, ready to spring back to the elevator with his fucking gigantic tip clutched in his hands. But then Gavin turned back. “...You know, boi, we do have this extra pizza.” Ryan grinned over Gavin’s shoulder, hand possessively on Gavin’s hip. “And we do need an extra hand for our plans, if those beautiful biceps can throw as mean of a punch as we think it can.”

Jeremy froze. They couldn’t be...

“We always have a spare seat at the table for those who can stand up to us,” Ryan replied easily. “Come in, have a slice. Hear what we have to offer. If you want to leave after that, you can, no questions asked.”

There would be questions asked and Jeremy knew it. If he went inside now, inside with the fucking Fake AH Crew, than he’d be in. They wouldn’t let him leave, not if he knew what the Vagabond looked like without his mask, not if he saw their plans.... He swallowed heavily. He had the chance to leave now. They were offering it, no strings attached. 

But....

Jeremy turned on his heel again, shoving the 200 dollars in his pocket. Why the fuck not, right? Maybe Los Santos had something for him after all. Gavin and Ryan smirked as he strode forward, meeting eyes over his head. 

Maybe Los Santos could offer something good, every once in a while. It certainly had excellent pizza.


End file.
